Insomnia

I wander, like the dead,
(Or is it dying?) through this
Despondent woken hell.
I see the hellish;
Faces turned to impish,
Dissipated, stagnant stares,
That seem to mock me as I stand.

The world seems long;
Every second ticks by like an hour,
Every glistening nodule of sweat
Drips slowly, runs, then drops,
To my swirling, dissolute,
Profligated void,
That is, what is,
Beyond my knackered sight.

Grey bars of heavy lead
Lay across my eyes like
Loads of pallid indolence.
Blearily I rub lost eyes,
Limbs like cumbersome boulders,
And a lethargy I can barely comprehend.

Yet I know sleep will not come,
Won’t drown me in its futile dreams:
I must march languidly on,
Like the somnolent dead,
Or dying.